baby, you'll always be mine
by light and lemons
Summary: Imagine: Tessa's dad stayed. Tessa's roommate isn't Steph. Tessa's unrelated to any bet. Tessa has friends. Tessa's healthy and independent and sure of her own worth. And yet, she still falls for one Hardin Scott. That will never change.
1. The Catalyst

THE DAY doesn't begin until a cup of coffee is within reach. I've been up for almost two hours but it's only now, as I step inside the quaint coffee shop on campus, do I start to feel awake.

"One vanilla latte," I order, thanking the cashier when he passes me my change. I spend way too much of my paychecks here, but I can't help it. It's ingrained in me, at this point. Get up. Get ready. Get coffee.

Snatching a seat on the couch, I pull both my phone and planner out of my tote-bag. As I'm waiting for my call to get through, I check my schedule for today. Three classes almost back to back. Quick lunch. Office hour. Library shift. Dinner with my friends. Study with Lilian and Samantha after. Busy, but manageable.

"Tessa?" My mother speaks, her voice slightly difficult to hear over the noise. It's early, but the café is almost packed to its limit. I can hear everyone chattering either excitedly or anxiously about the new semester.

"Hi mom," I greet her cheerfully, unsurprised when she doesn't return the favor. Instead, she presses almost urgently: "Where are you? Why aren't you in class?"

"I'm grabbing coffee right now," I explain, craning my body awkwardly to see if they've brought out the next batches of orders. No such luck. "I don't have class until 9am." I add, hoping to diffuse the annoyance I can feel simmering from her end. She hates catching me doing anything not academia-related.

"Well," she draws out the word and I imagine her lips are pursed disapprovingly. I wait for her inevitable chiding.

"It's already 8:20am, don't you think you're cutting it a little close?" She snips snootily. I know she's just saying shit to say shit—forty minutes is plenty of time to make it to class, especially since this café sits smack middle of campus. "I know it's the first week of classes, but you can't be slacking off, young lady. If anything, you need to be on top of your game. Any slip ups and it could ruin you for the rest of the semester." She scolds me like she's threatening me.

I bite my bottom lip cheekily at her words, thankful she wasn't present to witness my amusement: this was an exact verbatim of her speech she'd given me last semester. The Tessa Young of last fall, anxious and impressionable when starting freshman year, might've cowered at her daunting words, too juvenile to know any better, but the Tessa Young now was different. So I gave her a curt "Yes, mother," and left it at that.

Seeming satisfied with my response, my mother changes topics.

Her incessant chattering is not unwelcome. When she's not scolding me, I find it comforting to hear her speak. Sure, the conversations never range far from her rich friends or our pastor's preaching, but I admire the passion and excitement behind her words nonetheless. I'd prefer that over screaming and crying and cursing, any day.

I go back to perusing my planner, making a mental note to start scheduling next month's itineraries, and alternate between humming soft acknowledgments to mother's words and lifting my head up every so often to check on my order. They're slower than usual today (I chalk it up to the new workers I spy across the counters) so I'm glad I arrived even earlier than typical.

"So," mother's tone shifts again, and I resist sighing as I instinctively recognize it. She'd kill me for sassing her.

"How's Noah?" She pries, asking as if she's keen to a secret I'm oblivious to.

"He's fine, mom." It's past experiences of this same song-and-dance that keep my answers short. "Still my friend."

"_Just _friends?" She taunts, no doubt smirking on her end.

"_Just _friends." I emphasize, hoping this derails her.

"Honey," she says pointedly, the condescension leaking into her endearments, and this time I do groan quietly. Thankfully, the sound is drowned out by everything else. "He won't wait forever—

"Wait for what?" I cut her off, despite knowing she hates that. Playing dumb is tacky but so is attempting to matchmake your daughter with the neighbor boy she's known her entire life. Me and Noah are _friends_, more like _siblings _than anything.

Predictably, she makes that noise she does whenever she's annoyed. Thankfully, however, she doesn't comment on my interruption. Instead, more tortuously, she spurs on: "You know _what_, Theresa." She spits out _what_and my stomach churns in response. "That boy is a good boy, you deserve to be with someone like him. I just don't understand why you keep playing games, dragging him all the way out there just to stay _friends_. A little manipulative, don't you think?"

Her words are delusional, at best and derisive, at worst.

I'm not sure how to get it through her thick skull that me and Noah will _never _happen. Me and _anyone _will_never _happen.

Don't even get me started on how wrong it is that she implies I have to _give something in return _just because Noah "followed" me to WCU, or so she claims more often than not. A woman should never be expected to reciprocate anything unless she wants to. That's how it should _always _be, friend or not.

It's harder to bite my tongue this time. She's _way _out of line and I think she knows that, given the short silence that cloaks our conversation. I take deep breaths through my nose to calm my rising heart-beat. Her words, though spoken with insistent conviction, are more so to goad me than anything.

"Tessa—" she starts but is interrupted when my name is called in the background.

A lurch of happiness springs me onto my feet. My coffee is ready, and this conversation is done. My mother must realize that too, given her heavy sigh of resignation. This is a conversation—an issue, really—for another time.

"I'll call you again, this week." I promise her, my voice impressively calm. I'm going to pretend she didn't just accuse me of stringing my oldest friend along. For my sake and hers.

"You better," she demands, a tad less relenting than usual. I wonder if she feels guilty. The thought disappears as quickly as it comes when, with a swift click, I hear the dial tone ringing, signaling our ended call. Too guilty to say goodbye, I lie to myself.

As the phone slips back in my bag, so does any thoughts about my mother. She can only affect me if I let her. And had it not been such a beautiful morning, one that set the tone for another glorious day in WCU, it might've.

"Thanks so much," I'm beaming as he passes the cup into my awaiting hands, the warmth of the freshly brewed coffee almost eliciting an embarrassing moan from me. _Almost_.

Dazedly, I twirl the cup around, before looking questionably at the barista. I didn't order a large.

"On the house." He says before I even ask. His grin warms me like this coffee. "For waiting so long," he clarifies.

"You didn't have to do that—" I start but never finish.

"I wanted to," he shushes my protests. And that's that.

"Well, thank you, Landon." I return his smile, touched by his gesture. We weren't close by any means but suffering through Professor Ross' dreadful 8am connects people in inexplicable ways. I wonder if we'll share a class again this semester. It'll be nice to start up our study dates again.

"So how was break?" Landon begins, voice calm and collected, as if he isn't swarmed by masses of orders. I watch as he seemingly does three things at once: as he sets the grinder, he preps the blender, moving to steam milk and simultaneously grab the whip cream can from the cabinet, as he does so. He's great for his job, that's for sure.

When I'm confident I won't mess up his flow, I answer: "Same old. It flew by."

My answer's vague but his is even more so: "Same." He agrees.

"How's Dakota?" I ask, a smile threatening my lips as the romantic in me leaps excitedly for an update on their so-very romantic romance. Their love is one for the classics, I can't help but decide.

He chuckles, like the man in love he is, despite my not having cracked any jokes. As he caps off four drinks, he throws a quick grin towards my side of the counter, and just like that, I'm immensely relieved. They're still together. Thank God. "She's doing great, she's improving so much, her instructors keep complimenting her!" This time, his response is vivid and enthusiastic, and the comparison is striking. He glows at the mere mention of Dakota and it comforts me much more than I would admit. Not all love is destined for misery. His and Dakota's love proves that.

"That's amazing, Landon." I tell him "I know she's going to make it big, one day. New York big."

"I hope so," he says, happily "let's pray she doesn't leave me when that happens." He laughs heartily and though my traumas haunt me with a split-second fear of her doing so, of Dakota hurting this pure-hearted boy, I laugh along with him.

Not everyone has abandonment issues, I silently remind myself.

"Alright, I better head out." I wave and he takes a second away from his station to wave back.

"See you tomorrow, Tessa!" he replies, and I assume he's working the opening shift again.

"Bye Landon!"

And I step out, coffee in hand, tote in tow, ready to begin my second day of spring semester.

* * *

THE WEEK flew by, faster than any bird, I'm sure. The coffee I drank that Tuesday morning, so rich and perfectly blended, blurs in my memory, but the rejuvenated hope I gained from Landon remains throughout the week. It prevails through the three separate instances of my mother phoning me about my father's relapses, her voice coarser with every passing call. It prevails even as she begins cursing him, her ultimatums and threats and abuses spilling easily out of her "conservative" lips. And it prevails even when she threatens divorce for the umpteenth time. But now, as I sit anxiously on the edge of my twin-sized bed and watch Samantha pace angrily about in our tiny dorm room, that hope unsurprisingly falters.

"How _dare _he?" She spits out with venom. I flinch, but she doesn't notice, too occupied with her marathon. I wouldn't be surprised if she burned a hole with her trekking. "He's just—just—ugh! Un-_fucking_-believable!"

I've never been that mad where I have no words, so my empathy doubles at her frustrations. My best friend didn't deserve this. And on a Friday night, too—her weekend, no doubt, is borderline ruined despite it barely starting.

"He's just ridiculous, Tessa!" She rants, her face swelling up in her anger. "First, he fucking avoids me on campus—goes out of his god-damn way to _pretend _not to see me. As if _I'm _not the one who should be doing that! He's _lucky _to even _breathe _the same air as me, let alone be near me. And has the fucking balls to be, what—embarrassed by me? _I should be embarrassed of you, Zed!_" Samantha Anderson, for all of her faults, is not a conceited girl. She's not judgmental or prejudiced, so for her to say this—to be pushed to this limit, just reinforces my belief that love is toxic. It brings out the worst in people and Sam epitomizes this.

"And _as if _that's not bad enough!" She's hysterical at this point, despite having gone at this for almost an hour. I'm surprised no one's called the RA on us yet. "_He__leaves to Florida without telling me! _What a fucking asshole! A jerk! A son of a bitch, asshole motherfucker!" She's breathing heavily at this point and I silently toss her the water bottle adjacent to me.

Her emotions are spiraling but her reflexes remain honed, so she catches it easily. I know I should be diffusing her anger, but frankly, she needs this. She needs to rant. She doesn't need my pretty words or my kind excuses to derail her anger. Nope. She needs a nice water bottle that'll quench her thirst so that she can resume her bitching in peace.

"God and I wouldn't even had known if it wasn't for Hardin!" Samantha yells, once she finishes the bottle. I flinch again when she squeezes the plastic tightly, the noise aggravating my ear but soothing her anger, somehow. "He made me look like a fucking idiot, Tessa. And all this time, he just let me go on and on about this stupid dinner, when," she pauses to laugh humorously, eyes wild "he wasn't even planning to go! What is _wrong _with him?!"

At that, I felt irrationally guilty.

The first thing I'd ever said when Sam mentioned Zed well back in winter break, was that I wanted to meet him immediately. Samantha had never mentioned a boy before to me, so it spoke volumes when she casually (not-so-casually though, Sammie) slipped in his name: Zed, a boy she'd matched with on tinder. After weeks and weeks of pleading, negotiating, and begging, she finally relented, promising that once she was sure he was good, she'd introduce him to me. The reason behind this delay? She knew how sensitive I was about love, relationship, and attachments in general, given my background.

Tonight was supposed to be this dinner. The three of us at some Applebees-esque type restaurant where I'd order a Shirley Temple and amuse myself with the caffeine while they made googily eyes at each other across the table. And then I'd pretend that Noah or Robert needed me at their dorm so that they'll have privacy to indulge themselves in whatever their hormones demanded of them.

Obviously, that didn't happen.

Instead, my poor best friend was told _by someone else_that Zed wasn't in the state, let alone the city.

She's completely right: he's an asshole.

If only I didn't ask for this dinner, then she would have less gasoline to fuel her anger.

I feel almost responsible for her misery, despite knowing it was well out of my hands. But the mother hen inside couldn't help it.

"I just…" she draws out, the fight leaving her. There's pain in her brown eyes and I feel it swallow me, too. "don't want to think about this anymore. I just need to forget about it. I'm tripping. We're not even dating. Who cares what he did or didn't tell me—he doesn't owe me anything,"

"No!" I shout to protest, on my feet before I even realize. Sam's eyes are widened in surprise, given how quiet and calm I've been since she's started her tirade.

"This isn't your fault! You're not tripping!" I say with as much conviction as possible. The words sound funny on my lips and I realize I never advise, I just listen. "He's the jerk here, it's not asking a lot for him to just text you that he won't make it. Or him to just tell you something came up and he's leaving. That's so fucked up, just leaving you hanging!" The curse word is awkward but necessary.

I can tell with that each word her insecurities are diminishing and I'm ecstatic.

"You're right! Absolutely right!" she says, the fire back in her eyes. And I resist heaving out a sigh of relief. A woman's worst state is when she loses her fire.

"What are you doing? Are you calling him?" I ask wearily, watching her stalk to her phone and roughly punch stuff onto her screen.

"Hell no," she snorts and I'm glad for that too. That would've gotten messy quickly. "I'm calling Becca. We're gonna go out tonight."

"Okay, have fun," I say, turning back to my opened laptop that has fallen asleep from no use and completely missing her pointed look. "Call me if you guys need a ride back." I offer, pulling open a few e-reader novels.

I start contemplating where I should position my vanilla candles—last time, it was too close to me, the smell making me heady with sleep, but if not on my shelf, then where?—when Samantha treks over to me and firmly closes my laptop. "Hey!" I whine, thankfully avoiding jamming my fingers with swift reflexes.

"No." she points her index at me and the sight reminds me of my mother.

"Becks," Sam answers as the line goes through. I pout behind her turned back—what did she mean 'no'? All I've looked forward to, this week, is immersing myself into the beauty that is Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth Bennett. "Let's go out tonight…Yeah…she's coming…I'm making her…Uh huh, we'll meet there…Robert'll drive…Alright, bye babe."

"What did Becca say?" I ask hesitantly, praying to God this isn't what I think it is. I was no mood to attend a party. I haven't wanted to since the start of college and I'll never want to, in general.

Sam doesn't answer me and instead walks towards my closet.

"At least ask!" I complain as she starts sifting through my clothes.

"Did you need to borrow something?" I ask, hopeful that is the case.

"No." she answers. "But you might need something of mine." She declares and I groan at that.

"I'm not coming Sam," I said firmly.

"You are."

"Nope. Not a chance."

"You can't avoid this, it's already been decided." She says knowingly and I'm glad that this brief moment of arrogance and entitlement has distracted her from the pain that is Zed…I don't know his last name yet.

"By who?" I guffaw, throwing my head back in amusement. "Are you both my mothers or something?"

"_Fairy _Godmother," she deadpans and I roll my eyes at that. What a stupid joke. I must've said that out-loud because she indignantly snips: "Ex-_cuse you_."

"This isn't my scene, Sam." I try to reason with her. There's a reason why I rejected her offer the first thousand times. I'd much rather be here with a book, wrapped coddlingly in my arms, while the lights are dimmed, and the candles alit. And when my eyes finally blur words together, I'll move onto _Friends_and binge-watch that until exhaustion wins. _That _sounds like a beautiful Friday night. Not watching people smoke, drink, and do…_that _anywhere near my vicinity. No matter how curious I am.

She ignores me, of course. "And those definitely aren't my people!"

At that, she responds, throwing her hands up dramatically. Sammie is nothing, if not dramatic. "_I'm _your people!" She declares and if she were a boy, perhaps this might've been forced in some heteronormative romance movie.

"I'm your people," she repeats with the same conviction of my defense. "And Becks, and Lil, and Riley—" I stop her with an "Okay, okay!" before she names the rest of our group, or worse, start on our janitor and RA.

She laughs at the scrunch of my face, knowing damn well I'm embarrassed. So Sam being Sam, adds more heat to my blush: "Look, you need to stop being afraid of 'scenes,' whatever the fuck that means. Because the truth is, they're _all _your scenes. And you will thrive in whatever one you choose. So don't be worried about fitting in, because I will be with you in every step of the way. What did I tell you before, Tessa? We're all in your corner."

I'm appalled to find that her words are affecting me. And I'm appalled, yet unsurprised, I'm crying.

At her smug face, I know she's not surprised either.

"What you need to do," Sam instructs, coming towards me to grab my shoulders. "is sit here, let me do your make-up, let me pick out your clothes, and let me show you a good time, tonight. I just really need you in my corner, tonight, and I know you being there will make everything better."

And that's the last nail in the coffin. And that sealed my fate, in a way.

Years later, when I look back on this moment, on this defining moment where Zed's flimsy mistake catalyzed a chain of reactions that would forever change my life, I'll complain jokingly that Sammie lured me in, trapped me with the schemes of her words. But I'll know better and she'll know better, though I doubt she'll ever contradict my words—it wasn't her words. No amount of verbal coaxing would compare to that of her eyes: it was like looking into my own. The same loneliness that I saw every morning reflected in her brown, pitiful eyes. She was hurt and she needed me. That's what those brown eyes conveyed. And that was what evoked my _need _to attend.

I must've known since the moment Sam grabbed her phone, because there was a rush of _something_, of inevitable when I finally sighed and uttered: "Okay."


	2. A Little Party Never Killed Nobody

I END up driving. Robert puts up a good fight—arguing that his tank is fuller, and his parents cover his gas while mine don't, blah blah blah—but he underestimates my obsession with independence. Just the thought of relying on another to get home raises goosebumps.

Admittedly, maneuvering a stick-shift in the high stilettos Samantha conned on me almost became the deal-breaker. Almost. But not quite.

Samantha went overboard with my make-over. I could tell because Noah, who's witnessed my horrifying puberty days, lost his jaw at the sight of me while Robert, never one for exaggerations, stared at me like I was unrecognizable, like I wasn't the girl who locked herself out on the third night of dorming. It doesn't help that with every breath I take, my dress hitches higher than my GPA ever could.

As I shift gears to ease breaking before a red-light, Sam, crowding the back with Robert and alcohol, hisses obnoxiously for the third time within five minutes. There's a tall-tale sound of sloshing, accompanied by a hiss of "Oh shit!," that tempts me to turn this whole car around. But I take ten deep breaths, count to twenty, and start driving when the light changes green.

"Wait, wait, wait!" Sam cries, hysterical once again. "Everybody s-shut up!" She hiccups drunkenly and no one tells her that she's the only one talking. "Ri-Riley's calling,"

"Y-Yello-Hello," Sam coos, smiling tipsily at her phone. It might've been endearing if they were facetiming.

"Put Tessa on."

Sam pouts but passes her phone to Robert, who hands it to Noah, who presses the speaker button and holds it by my ear. Why Sam didn't just pass it to me herself, I'll never know.

"Hi Riley," I greet her. I've been expecting her call and the complaints she has lined up about Rebecca and Lillian.

"How dare you," she echoes Sam's words from a couple hours ago. "—leave me with these two Princesses. I should be in your car, not with the Siamese Twins." Riley has a habit of lumping Rebecca and Lillian together, labelling them the Princess P's—Preppy and Prissy. It's juvenile and unfunny, but I'm amused nevertheless. "They're fucking singing High School Musical, Tessa! I'm two seconds away from dumping their asses off the side of the road."

Becca mutters something about Riley not wanting to "Bop it, to the Top-it," which Riley kindly snarks a quick "Shut up!" before resuming our conversation.

"Whatever happens," she doesn't wait for my reply "you're driving them home. I'll take the queers and Sam-I-Am. I can't take this shit, anymore."

"Fine," I agree placatingly. "But don't call the boys "queer," that's disrespectful to those who identify as queer." I chide her and am satisfied when she murmurs a "Yeah, okay."

The line clicks just as Noah's GPS beeps, signaling our arrival.

It's a Frat house. One with big, painted Greek letters, scattered toilet paper, and littered red solo cups. How cliché.

"Our parents would have a heart attack." Noah jokes as I park behind a line of cars in the drive-way. I'm not sure if these spots are reserved by the frat boys but, after circling the block three times over, I don't care either way.

"Oh, definitely." I say, as I climb out of the car, making sure to smooth my dress.

Once I prop down my seat, Robert and Samantha follow suit, stumbling just slightly as their feet greet the steady gravel. I'm pleasantly surprised when neither chases to the bushes to vomit up their backseat, pre-game party. Instead, they enthusiastically haul Noah and I to the entrance.

It's a full house, a fact that feeds my stereotypical impression of frat parties.

With swarms of people coming in and out, I can barely squeeze past the door. Momentarily, I'm worried we won't find Riley, but my fears are dashed when I spy her red, curly hair gliding through the crowds, Lillian and Becca in tow.

"Tess-a!" Becca launches herself onto me, her weight staggering my unsteady stilettos. Noah's grip on my shoulders, however, impede any hazards before they transpire.

I shoot him a grateful look over Becca's shoulder. The goof winks exaggeratingly and tosses a thumbs up in return.

"What t-took you guys so long?" Lillian pants, once she finishes her round of hugs.

"Couldn't find parking." Noah explains.

She bobs her head knowingly, stopping her brisk movements before she unintentionally invites motion-sickness. Without a word, she tugs my hand into the crowd, the rest of our friends following accordingly.

"Let's get some drinks going, yeah?" Lillian's eyes glow with excitement, making her appear more sober than she truly is. "Let's all take a shot! We can toast our friendships!"

Riley must've snorted because Lillian flings her middle finger. I don't catch Riley's snub, too busy taking in the kitchen. The island is littered with God-knows-what—I keep backing Sam away every time she leans too close to the sticky countertop—but we claim the spot, anyways. Once situated, Lillian lines out seven shot glasses while Becca reappears with a half-empty vodka bottle.

"Ew Smirnoff, really? Fuck is wrong with you, Becks?" Riley is disgusted and I'm confused. What's Smirnoff? I thought that was vodka.

As Riley and Becca engage an argument about the merits of vodka and tequila, Robert turns to me, probably sensing my confusion. He clarifies that Smirnoff is, indeed, a brand of vodka.

Somehow, Riley produces an unopened tequila bottle and I'm getting whiplash from watching my friends seemingly pull alcohol from the air. Ignoring Becca's whines, Riley expertly mimics bartenders: pouring straight across seven glasses, instead of individually, not letting a single drop spill. "Would you two stop it?" Sam complains when Becca threateningly inches her tequila shot to the sink, as if to toss it down the drain. "let's just take both. Then we can get some mixies. And beer. And a wine bag."

Becca pauses before returning to her spot, evidently placated. Seeing that, everyone grabs their shot—even Noah—as Lillian passes the salt shaker. What's the salt for?

When I don't reach for mine, Sam stares at me expectantly.

"I said I'll come, but not that I'm drinking." I remind her, not wavering under her pressure.

Her groan doesn't budge me in the slightest.

"And I'm driving," I add for good measure.

"So am I, but one shot isn't gonna to kill you, Young." Riley reasons but I'm not listening, too interested in watching slices of limes appear in my friends' awaiting hands.

"Have you done this before?" I ask Noah.

Unlike me, he's frequented a few parties and though there's never much to report, in terms of his scandals, I know he isn't as squeaky clean as Mr. and Mrs. Porters are led to believe. College has poisoned him, I joke privately.

"Tequila's pretty fun," he confirms. Despite my expecting this, I can't stop the jolt of surprise materializing at the thought of nice, respectful, Christian Noah Porter tasting any other alcohol than the wine served at our church.

I nod, but I'm not tempted. And I refused to be peer-pressured.

I hear a groan of defeat and I assume it's Sam's since the brunette swipes my shot away from me, mumbling something about "picking your battles" while she did so.

"Here," Lillian catches my attention. Sticking with the apparent magician theme of the night, she produces one of those Starbucks glass-bottled, ready-made coffees in her hands. At my inquisitive confusion, she clarifies: "I grabbed it from the fridge."

"I can't take this." I move to put it back, but Lillian blocks me.

"It's fine, Tessa. People take their shit, all the time. They don't care." Lillian assures me, but I'm unconvinced.

I weigh the bottle, gyrating it before catching messy, jumbled writing—in big, black ink, it spelt: 'HARDIN.'

"It belongs to this 'Hardin' guy," I tap on his name. "I don't want to take it from him without his permission." Frat boys may be keen to spend their parents' money, but it was still someone's money and I wasn't about to steal.

"Hardin?" Lillian scrunches her eyebrows as if she recognizes that name.

"Hardin? It's Hardin's?" Sam's expression reflects Lillian's and I wonder if she too, knew him. "If it's like that, he definitely won't care. Take it, Tessa," she coaxes, and I feel slightly eased by her familiar tone: if they're friends, it should be fine, right? It's only when Lillian nods encouragingly, do I finally accept it.

"C-Can we get back to drinking, I'm starting to sssober up. And I'm tired of watching Riley give Noah purp-purple nurples." Becca whines woozily.

There's a chorus of agreement and simultaneously, they lick their hand before sprinkling salt on the wetness. After Lillian toasts a cringy "To Friendship!," they all lick the salt, tip the tequila back, and shove a lime in their mouths. Their shot glasses barely meet the countertop, when Becca refills with Smirnoff. Noah, who hadn't pre-gamed, indulges in a few more generous refills.

A few more rounds later, their movements are slurred and heady, as the intoxication of fast, binge drinking catch up to my friends.

I'm fascinated by their easy laughter and drunken mirth. It's completely juvenile, what constitutes as "funny" right now, but I can't suppress my laughter. Becca keeps imitating monkey sounds, triggered by Sam's off-key (horrendous, really) singing—"It's not a fucking karaoke night, Sam-I-Am!"—, and Robert's loose lips divulge all of Noah's dirty secrets, courtesy of their sharing a dorm. Even Riley loses her edge, actually cracking a smile, when Lillian shares the mortifying trauma of walking in on her parents doing…it.

We loiter for longer than necessary, taking the majority of the kitchen space, but I revel in it.

For the first time ever, I see the appeal of alcohol. I understand the exhilaration of red cheeks, glossy eyes, and loose lips. It's like the air changes, brewing a charge in the atmosphere that urges fun, excitement…youth.

For once, alcohol isn't uninhibited anger, screaming matches across the house, or holes in the wall. No one flinches when another shot is raised nor trembles in fear, tears blurring, when another bottle's opened.

I haven't touched a drop of alcohol, yet I'm warmed by the same headiness that inebriates my friends.

"L-L-Let's B-Bop I-It!" Becca attempts to wobble off the countertop, gripping mine and Riley's arms for support. She'd climbed the island to showcase some dance moves from her tango class—why an Econ major would attend tango lessons, I'll never understand—and I guess she'd worked herself up into a dancing frenzy. I surprise everyone by agreeing almost immediately: "Let's go!"

I guess I'm hyped too—

"Oh fuck yeah," Becca slurs and that's all I get, before she weaves me to the make-shift dance floor. Our friends, of course, follow.

And it's a great time.

* * *

"I SWEAR to God, Lil— You're letting them win! For fuck's sake!" Riley berates before the ball even misses and Lillian, without missing a beat, pivots into Riley's face, a slew of excuses that teeter as accusations ready to be fired. Hearing them banter about Riley's closeness messing up Lillian's aim, I realize I've forgotten whose idea it was to pair them up, but it's working graciously in my favor.

Robert, my teammate for this round, whistles low when I ease another ball in, the beer sloshing only a bare minimum at the contact. "God, are you the queen of Beer Pong, or am I just hammered?"

"Probably just hammered," I laugh, passing him the ball that Riley begrudgingly rolls back to us. I'm way too competitive and sober for this game, but it's too entertaining to stop. I've won the last five rounds already.

Robert misses expectantly so, given his drunken state. Riley makes no attempt to mask her triumph, even though she's seven cups to our three. "Thank fuck," she delights, subtlety obviously not in her vocabulary.

Good-humoredly, Robert rolls his eyes and plucks the ball from the floor. It didn't even make it across the half-way point—that was how sloppy his throw was. I wonder if I should make Robert tap out, he's obviously way too sloshed to finish this game. I glance at Noah, who's lounging on the couches by the walls, the only other candidate since Sam and Becca disappeared, but decide against it, not wanting to interrupt his chat with a girl from his class. From the way they keep finding excuses to touch each other, suffice to say that this girl might be the key to prying my mother off my back.

"My turn," Riley aggressively swipes the ball, despite the lack of resistance from Robert's opened hands.

Like the last three turns, her aim flops. You'd think she'd at least clank a cup's rim or something, given how far she cheatingly leans over the table, but that isn't the case. With every inch hovered closer, her measurement of distance is skewed, inciting her to fling too aggressively.

We all watched, transfixed, as the ball completely misses the Ping-Pong table and rolls towards the kitchen.

"Oh, just great, Riley! Who's letting them win, now?" Lillian rants childishly, breaking the spell. "You said You got it—

Her words dissipate as I follow the ball. We've lost seven balls already; this was the last one from the pack Becca gave us. And considering we haven't seen her in hours, I doubt this game'll last any longer if we lose this one, too.

The kitchen is more packed since I've left it. There are clusters of cliques dispersed throughout the space: some blocked the fridge; some claimed the island; and some sprawled over the dining table, just outside the cooking area.

The mass of people complicates my search. The ball's too small to detect, no matter how many times I circle the seedy kitchen, and it doesn't help that the flooring is white, either. I've just about had it when, by some miracle, I spot the round ball peeking under the dining table. It'd been blocked by the shadows, looking almost shy as it hides under the mahogany wood. I feel more ecstatic than I should when I notice it, but I'd invested too much effort in this search to care, at this point.

And as I stalk—stride, really—to it, I certainly didn't care for the people surrounding it, too thrilled by the prospect of kicking Riley's ass in Beer Pong, again.


	3. And Yet People Still Die at Parties

unbeta'd and written in three hours. that's how i do it, baby.

* * *

"Is this yours?" A voice asks from before me, reaching down to pick up the ping-pong ball loitering by his Sperry's.

By the time he's risen up from his bent position, I've placed a name to the voice: it's Nate. Nate from one of my GE classes. As in Nate whose tardies have disrupted lecture thrice now, and counting.

His question elicits a pause in conversation, turning heads to our direction. His friends are silent, watching us, and it doesn't take much to detect the judgment in their stares. I've intruded on their circle.

I don't say anything, choosing instead to grab the ball from his outstretched palm.

It's sticky. And wet. I can't help my grimace.

"You're lucky that didn't roll in yack." Nate grins, amused by my disgust.

"Feels like it did," I tell him.

"Nah," He steals the dirty plastic back, casually making a show of rolling it around in his palm as if to test it. "Probably ran through some jungle juice. Nothing too major. Just rinse it in the sink and you'll be good to go, Young."

He deftly passes the ball back to me, but I don't notice. The easy slip of my name staggers me, and my disgust is replaced by uninhibited surprise. How does he know my name?

Nate's blonde brows crinkle warily in response and I realize I've inquired aloud. He shrugs his shoulders with an ease so enviable; I feel the knots in my shoulder throb in protest. "Tessa Young, right? We're in the same group for the mid-term project."

Surprise shifts into recognition as smoothly as running water.

I have a project in my communications class. A project with Nate. Nate is the fourth member of our group.

"Nate." Another voice interrupts, his gruff pitch robbing me of my chance to respond and pulling Nate's attention back to his friends. They all don various looks of boredom and disinterest.

The one who spoke is a boy with piercings and tattoos, whose face twists in glaring irritation at how long our conversation's dragged on.

"We're leaving," he announces, his words emerging more as a demand than anything. "_Now._"

Nate rolls his blue eyes but hops off the table he's been perched on. "Chill out, Hardin."

"How can I?" That rude boy – _Hardin_, that name keeps popping up everywhere– snips. "Your boring-ass conversation is grating my fucking nerves."

It's such a stupid comment, one reminiscent of an impatient boy throwing a tantrum, but it pisses me off. I can't stop the affronted _"Excuse me?_" that follows instantaneously and somehow meshes with Nate's simultaneous "Shut the fuck up."

Hardin rolls his eyes at us and dismissingly turns his attention to the pink-hair girl pawing at his inked forearms incessantly. Whatever.

"I gotta dip, _apparently._" Nate tensions the last word, throwing a look of vexation to his friends but they're all ignoring us, by now. "See you in class though."

I barely get a goodbye in before the group shuffles out, heading straight towards the living room. An unwanted flare of awkwardness blossoms in my chest, as I contemplate on whether I should feel embarrassed or not, hovering alone by a mahogany table because the pseudo-leader of Nate's _gang _decided he just _couldn't _be in my presence for another second.

The social uncertainty and anxiety go as quickly as they came. By the time I release a deep exhale, Lillian appears in my line of vision.

"Tessa?" She calls out, lunging towards me from the doorframe connecting the kitchen to the dining room. "Where've you been? I've been looking everywhere for you. Robert's yacking!"

"Oh God," I groan, following her lead as she latches a loose grip on my wrist. "Is he okay?"

"I'm sure he's fine," Lillian says flippantly "He yacked out most of it, I think, and now he's resting on the couch. It's just gross as hell. We almost didn't make it to the trash can in time."

"Should I drive him back?"

"What? No." Pausing by a cabinet, she produces a spare cup that she fills with the tap water from the sink. I quickly douse the ping-pong ball in the cool water as well. "Let's just give him some water and see how he feels. It's too early to leave."

My watch shows it's 1am but I don't try to argue. WCU is infamous for their all-night ragers.

Just as Lillian said, Robert's slouching on a worn-leather couch, his eyes closed and limbs drunkenly sprawled, as Riley and Noah flank both of his sides. It is only when Lillian coos at him with her offer of water does he stir from his lifelessness. Graciously, he downs the tall glass in one gulp before fluttering back to closed eyes.

"Should we leave?" I ask again, just in case.

"Nah," Riley speaks up, shrugging her leather jacket off. It's 1am and yet there's still so many people swarming in. The house is packed. "He's going to rally. Just give him ten minutes."

I don't ask what 'rally' means but I'm comforted by Noah's toss of a thumbs up, all the same. Mollified, I squeeze myself in between Robert and Noah while Lillian rolls up a loose cushion to lounge on.

It's not long before we ease into the lull of partying, once more. After I produced the well-hunted ping-pong ball I had stuffed in my pocket for safe-keeping, another round of banter sprung between Riley and Lillian. Their shit-talking only ceased after I promised another game of Beer Pong to "settle the true winners," whatever that meant. I guess the two conveniently forgot our scoreboard of 7 to their 2.

The switch from discussing games to hook-ups happened in a blink of an eye, as Becca, from out of nowhere, fell woozily into Noah's lap. With her hair moussed, her make-up smudged, and her neck decorated with a series of bruises, it was easy to deduce where she'd been the last hour. Becca giggles like a school-girl at the attention, lapping up the way we all zero-in on her look.

Open as ever, it takes less than minute for Becca to spill on her dirty details. It is only when Noah blushes furiously and sputters clumsily when Becca lifts her hands to mimic the _length_, does the focus shift onto Noah.

"And what about you, Noah?" Lillian asks, bouncing on the edge of her seat. I know she's been dying to ask this since the moment we caught of a glimpse of it. "Who was _that_ on the couch, earlier?"

"J-J-Just a classmate," his ears singe red like they used to when we were kids. I almost keel over in affection.

It probably would've been better for him to ignore the question altogether, given how all the girls immediately pounce on him with teases and quips. Myself included.

The teasing ceases when Riley, her reflexes incredibly honed, twists to grab at the spare bin by her feet and thrusts it to Robert's lips. I've only just blinked as Robert lurches from his pseudo-slumber to retch up the rest of his intoxication, his large hands instinctively gripping the metal bin tightly. I don't even register that Lilly's left to refill until I feel a glass of water pushed into my left hand. The other hand is too busy rubbing circles on Robert's back.

The acidic smell of vomit creeps into my nose and tears form as a result, brimming my bottom lashes and waiting for permission to stream. Fortunately, Robert finishes quickly, and Riley practically jumps out of her seat to toss the chunks.

"How are you feeling?" My voice is soft, and I hope it's not grating.

"Like shit," Robert replies, humorously. He sounds soberer than he has been for the last two hours.

"Do you need anything?" I ask as he sits himself up. There's color back in his cheeks and the flush of alcohol simmers as a pink hue. Both are good signs.

Robert licks his lip musingly and immediately grimaces at the taste of vomit. "A towel."

"Towel?" Becca repeats, whirling her head around. "I think I saw some upstairs. There's probably a towel closet. Want me to get it?"

"No, no," I stop her before she can get up from Noah's lap. Despite how coherent she is, I know she's still drunk. The last thing I want is for her to fall on the staircases. "I can get it. Just look after Robert and I'll be right back."

Lillian and Becca move to occupy mine and Riley's spots and I hover for another second before throwing myself into the crowd of people moving in and out of the house.

I have to circle the house twice before I make my way towards the stairs. There are too many people – people who are almost twice my size – forcing their ways to the center of the party and I serve as their collateral damage in their pursuit for the main living room. I wonder if this is what a mosh pit would feel like.

Thankfully, there are less people on the second floor.

A few are pressed on the walls, the opposing force a pair of lips and a body frame. Others lean on the railings, making chit-chat with their friends and greeting their red-cups every-so-often. And all the other party-goers are, I can only assume, occupying one of the many spare bedrooms.

I don't focus on that though, pointedly ignoring the thrums of moans vibrating the thin, white, chipped walls. I'm too focused on my hunt for towels and the blatant realization that I forgot to ask for specifics on _where _the closet was. All I have in front of me are rows of indistinguishable white doors. Rows and rows and rows.

God, how big was this frat?

Throwing caution to the wind, I stalk down the long hallway. Logically, the towel closet must be near the bathroom. If I can find the toilets then I'm bound to detect the closet.

I try the door at the end of the hallway.

And by the time I press open the door, regret engulfs me. Regret that I didn't take Becca's offer.

And now, regret that I've walked in on a couple going at it.

The thing that tops this is in the worst way possible is the pure mortification that shoots through me, a horrible reaction that flushes my chest and cements my feet in place. I can't move an inch and it's not for not trying.

Not when the girl's raspy moans penetrate my eardrums. Not when the boy's inky back tenses at the noise of intrusion. And not when the half-naked couple leaps for the long-forgotten comforter on the floor in an ill-attempt of privacy. I don't understand why my body has shut down; it's as if I'm waiting for them to explode on me.

"What the fuck—" the guy roars, whipping around to face me.

The apology trembling on my lips dies as I recognize him as Hardin. Nate's Hardin.

Oh God, this is worse than I thought.

And of course, the real kicker is the head that pops up from behind him, silky locks of brunette hair that I recognize instantaneously. I see strands of it every day in our dorm.

Samantha.

Samantha and Hardin.

Sammie's eyes match mine, wide with shock and straining with mortification. In the moment, I don't understand why she looks at me like that, when I am the one who barged in, unannounced. But later, when the adrenaline dies and logic creeps in, I remember our conversation that started this night: Zed. Her something of a boyfriend Zed. Zed in Florida. Samantha with _Hardin _while Zed is in Florida. _That _is a lot to process.

What isn't a lot to process, however, is the way I scramble out the room as Hardin begins a slew of threats and curses. I forgo the apology and instead hone all my energy on dashing away as _far as possible _from the couple.

The hallway that felt so long earlier is exited in less than a minute, courtesy of my heavy-breathing sprinting. And the staircase that was obnoxiously blocked by unmoving people seem to clear itself as I push unapologetically through the hordes.

I don't stop running until I've exited the house, my embarrassment and humiliation propelling me to neglect returning to my friends. It's only the sight of my car, parked innocently on the driveway, that halts me.

"What the fuck—"

I freeze, irrationally thinking it's Hardin. It's not. The shriek is feminine. Distinctively female and sounding distressingly alarmed.

There's more yelling that follows, a mixture of the same feminine voice with bleedings of a drunken, slurred, male bellow. Curses and profanities fill the air, as the two voices clamber over each other, never letting the other finish their thoughts. The escalation of tension and anger remind me of my parents and that's the sole reason why I step towards the commotion.

"Fuck you _Dan_! And fuck your sister! You fucking—"

"Don't talk about my sister, you bitch—"

"I hope you both rot in hell—"

It's coming from the side of the house, in the alley with the big trash and recycling containers. I approach cautiously, slow and hesitant, unsure if it's my place to step in. I can't see them, the couple to shrouded by darkness and covered by the containers to be visible. It's only when I hear the tall-tale noise of a glass bottle shattering and the horrified screech (feminine, feminine, feminine) that follows, do my uncertain steps propel into hurried strides. Stumbling into the alley was irresponsible and reckless and I paid for that mistake with the two trippings I suffered through to get to the volatile couple. But it's all worth it to see the relief on the girl's face.

"Who the hell are you?" The boy slurs, staggering a bit. His eyes are glazed, his mouth drooling, and he holds a half-broken bottle of alcohol in his hands, the sharp glass pointing threatingly towards the pink-hair girl who is sprawled on the floor. I feel my heart break as I take in the fearful way she's inching as far away as possible from the drunken boy, her back pressed tightly against the side of the trash container. This is a scene I'm all too familiar with.

With a bravado I don't truly possess, I say slowly, "Put…the bottle…down."

"I swear to fucking God, Dan…" the girl anxiously mutters but quickly shushes as I throw her a sharp look. His attention isn't on her anymore and it needs to stay that way.

_Dan _sways uncontrollably and scrunches his face in perplexity. The confusion increases as he looks from me to the bottle he's holding. It's like he didn't realize he had a _weapon _in his possession.

He opens his mouth to slur a retort, but I beat him to it. "Put. It. _Down._"

A pause again, the silence is deafening between the three of us as we wait for Dan's next move.

Just as I think he's going to comply, his anger takes over and he starts to point the broken bottle towards me.

But he's drunk and too slow and he's not as frightening as my dad is on his meekest nights.

So I whip out my phone in warning before Dan could do anything. "I will call the police if you don't put it down, right now."

I hear a sharp intake of breath and I wonder whose it was.

Just to make a point, I slide my phone open and dial 9-1-1. "Put it down, Dan."

"Just fucking put it down, Dan!" The pink-hair girl screams, apprehension and panic whirling in her tone. She's frightened for me.

I'm not sure what it was – perhaps my phone or my use of this stranger's name or even the pink-hair girl's plead – but Dan tosses the bottle away from him. It crashes into other glasses that are littered around and the sound of breaking glass invites a flinch from me. By the time I've recovered from it, Dan is staggering past me, his bulky frame slamming my shoulders painfully as he moves to exit the claustrophobic alley. I hear a distinct "Fuck you!" bellowed into the silent night, the only thing interrupting the humming of music coming from the house, but I'm way too occupied with helping the girl up from her fetal position to pay any heed.

"Are you alright?" I ask the same question I asked Robert earlier.

Distraught and uncomfortable, the pink-hair girl pushes my hands away from her, choosing instead to grab the trash container to stabilize herself into standing upright.

"Don't touch me," she said, but the heat behind her words are lacking. It is only now am I able to distinguish her as the girl from Nate's circle, earlier. Another one of Nate's friends.

"You're bleeding," I point to my own cheeks to show her where the blood flow is, deliberately keeping my hands to myself.

She touches the spots and scowl darkly. "Fucking got glass shards on my face."

"Do you need to go to the hospital?" I ask, scrunching the hem of my dress anxiously. I could take her, of course, but the driveway is packed to the brim and someone has parked tandem behind my car. There's no way I'd be able to find the driver easily.

"No," She declines gruffly, the annoyance in her tone reminding me of Hardin. I frown at the thought.

"What about the bathroom? I have some rubbing alcohol in my car – I can help take those out." I offer.

"Not interested." She replies, moving to grab her bag off the floor. I'm about to offer to take her bag for her but she begins to slip out of the alley before I get the chance. And just like that, as we step out of the darkened area and into the dimmed-lighted front yard of the frat house, I see her shed all of her previous terrors. What is left, instead, is the confident girl that I caught a glimpse of earlier this night. Without another word, she walks back into the party.

And once again, I'm alone in the front yard.

Still reeling from these recent events, I pull out my phone, hoping for a distraction. It's now 1:50am.

4 missed calls from Noah.

2 missed calls from Riley.

1 missed call from Sam.

I feel disturbingly sobered, despite not drinking a sip of alcohol, and I know it's time to go home.

With that in mind, I head back into the frat house, ready to go round up my friends and hunt down a spare towel (perhaps the kitchen might have one?).


End file.
